The following is a Neatorama
Shop Story, a narrative starring the products carried in this blog’s
very own online store.

1932, Vieux Carré. The spirited jazz befit the
life the old lady had lived. She had been known for curing illnesses,
lifting curses and brewing love potions, all without charging. She had
gotten along with everyone, even the reclusive nocturnal couple who rented
the windowless basement apartment. The procession wound its way back to
her grand dwelling on St. Ann Street where we found ourselves at a wake
hosted by the deceased’s attractive young niece, Sookie, who had
just returned from her studies abroad.

We had only recently taken up residence in the sun-drenched breezy balconied
rooms on the second floor. The first floor was occupied by a handsome
but shy young pianist. He and the old lady had “adopted” each
other some years earlier and had become constant companions, so his absence
from the procession had raised our eyebrows and our concern. Later, when
we did not see him at the wake, we feared he was bedridden with grief
and loneliness, yet our worries melted away like Cajun crawfish croquettes
as we eagerly sampled the buffet before us. In anticipation of crossing
over, the old lady had written out a meticulous plan which Sookie had
followed to the letter, lovingly preparing all of her Aunt’s secret
recipes, and placing at the center of the table a voodoo doll toothpick
holder. With each miniscule skewer removed by a guest and plunged into
cayenne crab cakes, deep fried jambalaya crisps, or gator gumbo gobs,
everyone present felt a pang of sadness lift, and recalled in its place
a joyous memory of a joke shared or wisdom gained in times spent in the
company of the dearly departed.

The jazz band paused as the very house itself seemed to groan and sob
a long cathartic wail. Just then, our mysteriously absent neighbor stumbled
through the doorway, clutching his bosom. Our hostess looked into his
eyes and then down at the table, where a lone stick jutted from the heart
of its man-shaped holder. Plucking the tiny toothpick from its hole, she
stabbed a soft praline ball and lifted it to the quivering lips of the
young man whose hands promptly fell from his chest to his sides and then
wrapped themselves around the waist of his savior. The two young people
closest to the old lady’s heart would now dwell in each others’,
as she had long intended.

We knew it was past our bedtime when our subterranean neighbors arrived
bearing blood-sausage-stuffed po’ boys. As we were saying goodnight,
the hostess passed us the little perforated person who had served up so
much deliciousness and pain. She said, “Please take this. My aunt
would have wanted you to have it. She told me that your love spanned the
ages.”

Our little friend is now marketed under the name of “Ouch!
The Voodoo Doll Toothpick Holder.” We have employed ours on
several occasions without attracting the attention of authorities. It
has retained its power as a great party starter. We have used it at an
acupuncturist’s reception, and have adorned “Ouch!”
with ruffle-ended toothpicks to evoke a grass skirt for a Very Brady taboo/voodoo
luau. When he is not partying, “Ouch!” makes a nice paperweight
and graciously holds our “flags of all nations and eras” pushpin
collection (essential in mapping our adventures). Just hanging out with
him imparts a comforting feeling that you have a tool with which to control
the universe. “Ouch!” does not appear to have been approved
for use with sparklers, so we cannot advise in good conscience that you
try it. Suffice it to say that it would look wicked cool and the spell
would be that much more effective.

Ouch!
Voodoo Doll Toothpick Holder, available from the Neatorama
Shop for $7.95

__________

The story above is written by the dynamic duo Drs. Ernest and Convalescence
Bidet-Wellville (hey, I didn’t name ‘em) of the University
of Self-Conscious Consumerism in Olde Busytowne, Connecticut. I suspect
they write cover stories for the CIA, so if I’m inexplicably missing
the next few days, you know what happened.